I am afraid to think about my death,
When it shall be, and whether in great pain
I shall rise up and fight the air for breath
Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.
I am no coward who could seek in fear
A folklore solace or sweet Indian tales:
I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear
The singing of a thousand nightingales.
I know dead men are blind and cannot see
The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes,
And they are witless—O I'd rather be
A living mouse than dead as a man dies.
A WESTERN VOYAGE
My friend the Sun—like all my friends
Inconstant, lovely, far away -
Is out, and bright, and condescends
To glory in our holiday.
A furious march with him I'll go
And race him in the Western train,
And wake the hills of long ago
And swim the Devon sea again.
I have done foolishly to head
The footway of the false moonbeams,
To light my lamp and call the dead
And read their long black printed dreams.
I have done foolishly to dwell
With Fear upon her desert isle,
To take my shadowgraph to Hell,
And then to hope the shades would smile.
And since the light must fail me soon
(But faster, faster, Western train!)
Proud meadows of the afternoon,
I have remembered you again.
And I'll go seek through moor and dale
A flower that wastrel winds caress;
The bud is red and the leaves pale,
The name of it Forgetfulness.